


At the Bottom of the Staircase

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Brothers, Family Drama, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Holmes Family, Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Sherlock hears noises in the night, and goes down the stairs to investigate, only to find his brother there, and his fears confirmed: mother and father are arguing again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Bottom of the Staircase

**Author's Note:**

> previously posted on dA. In the process of transferring fics to here from there.

Sherlock crept down the old creaky staircase of the country manor holiday house, feeling his hand along the fleur-de-lis wallpaper and squinting through the opaque gloom and the shifty suspicious shadows to see his footing, so not to miss a step and tumble head-over-heels in a ball of scruffy black curls and chalky limbs. He was careful to keep an even distribution of weight so not to create an almighty squeak that would echo around the house and the moors and marshes that rolled in the landscape beyond the walls. He could hear his breath trembling violently in his throat, and so clamped his teeth over his lip to silence himself, only to have another gasp burst out of him when he couldn't stand the pressure any longer.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock could see a dark shape crouched in the hall. His mind raced through haunting stories of terrible monsters and heinous fiends and the snacks they liked to gobble: small children who were up way past their bedtime. Sherlock fumbled in his pyjama pocket for one the spare glo-sticks he kept and, hands fluttering, he snapped it. He winced at the noise and his young face was suddenly illuminated with an ectoplasmic green. 

Warily, he waved it in front of him, extending his arm to full length, brandishing the plastic tubing like a knight waves a crystal sword. 

"Sherlock, it's me," Mycroft whispered irritably, pupils diluting as Sherlock thrust the glo-stick closer. Even when whispering his voice was still high and girly. Mycroft batted it away and put a finger to his lips. Sherlock mimics. Ssh. Don't talk. Talk in the night and they'll find you. Just like in the stories. 

Sherlock, in his black-and-silver starred all-in-one pyjama suit, sat down on the floor beside his big brother, leaning against the skirting board and feeling the heat from Mycroft's arm through the fabric of the clothes on his. His blue diamond eyes were wide with confusion and fear; snaps and shouts had invaded his dreams, turning them sour, and woke him with cold sweat. His natural instinct was to investigate and sooth the curious spirit that strained its neck and stood on the very tips of its toes to get a better view of the situation. Suddenly, Sherlock was very glad to have Mycroft there as company.

The two brothers listened and stared down the hall at the front room door. Usually the room behind the door was filled with warmth and laughter from the family. Squeals from the boys as the father chased and tickled them until they were crying with giggles; half-serious scolding from the mother as she disapproved of the potentially dangerous game. All mothers were the same, though. They all thought every game was potentially dangerous. It was their job to do so, no matter how annoying it could be. But now the boys could see shadows – a pair- flit and dart and stride across the yellow bar of lamp light and could hear the yells and barks. It was only noise to Sherlock; he didn't understand what they were saying, he wasn't sure he really wanted to, but Mycroft did. Sherlock nudged him, but Mycroft turned his head, face steely. 

"It's late," he said so quietly he may as well have mimed it. "You should be in bed."

"They woke me up," Sherlock hissed in protest, scrunching his brow. He hadn't yet mastered the subtlety of facial expressions. 

Mycroft's face was suddenly very sombre in the green half light. "Yeah. Me too."

"What are they shouting?" Sherlock asked.

"It doesn't matter." 

"They were shouting yesterday. Why were they shouting yesterday? And the night before?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Will they stop?"

"Yes."

"But they will start again?"

Mycroft didn't reply.

Sherlock fidgeted on the floor as tingle of pins and needles scampered and buzzed in his legs. He wriggled his toes to cure his fuzzy feet. Mycroft didn't look at him. He stared down the hall and closed his eyes, a slight, tired, sad sigh passing his lips. 

The shouting continued. One high shrieking with precise punches of painful remarks of memories and times gone by. A voice that picks at the scabs and the wounds of the past. Of their past. The second voice is lower, gruffer, filled with rage and despair and hurt and an anger so powerful it can tear the strongest of bonds as though it were sugar paper. A voice that no longer melts a heart like snow, but freezes one. 

Sherlock put his hands over his ears and let the sound of his own blood coursing through his veins calm him. It was the roar of his own private sea, not the roar of the lions. He curled up into Mycroft's side, who hugged him close, laid him down so his head rested on his knee, so his little brother's tears soaked his trousers and not his skin. If worst comes to the worst, he thought, I'll look after you. Always. I'll try not to fight with you anymore.

"Do they still…are they still…?" Sherlock's little voice was meek and broken in the hall. 

"Go to sleep," Mycroft cradled his brother's skull as he closed his eyes.

The green glo-stick light vanished, dissolving into the black embrace of the night, and the brothers disappeared into the shadows. Mycroft carried his younger brother up to his bed and tucked him in and snapped another stick.

We won't fight like them. We won't be enemies like them.


End file.
